Sophie was a little envious too. Ever since she’d read Lord Byron’s poem about the lakeside medieval castle, she’d wanted to see it. “Does she give her direction so we might send her our latest news?”
“Yes she does. And yes, we should.” Charlie sent her a smile. “I certainly think she’d be thrilled to hear Lord Claremont is courting you in earnest. And that our plan for catching rakes is at least working for you.”
Sophie shrugged a shoulder. “I think a healthy dose of luck has come into play in my case.”
“Oh, pooh. That’s nonsense.” Charlie passed her Arabella’s letter. “We should call on Olivia so she can read this. And, Aunt Tabitha, if you could spare the time to come along, too, we might even be able to persuade the de Veres to let her out of her gilded Grosvenor Square cage for an excursion.”
Lady Chelmsford put down a gilt-edged invitation and peered at her niece over her silver lorgnette. “That sounds like an excellent idea.” She sorted through a few more letters, then held one out to Sophie. “Miss Brightwell, there seems to be a missive here for you.”
Sophie’s heart leapt. Was it a reply from the publisher Mr. Murray? However, as soon as she caught sight of the neatly written script, she knew it was another letter from home. There seemed to be one every second day, saying the same things. Asking the same questions. Sophie winced as she read her mother’s effusive words about Lord Claremont again. Ever since the viscount had sought her stepfather’s permission to court her, her mother had been over the moon. Sophie supposed she couldn’t blame her for being excited at the thought that her lowly born daughter—one who’d been stained with notoriety—might become a viscountess. Her elevation in fortunes would help the whole family. Apparently, Lord Buxton’s demands for payment of the money her stepfather owed had become more insistent of late. So her mother was no doubt hoping Lord Claremont would be able to help out in that regard.
Sophie grimaced. Poor Matthew. He was courting a girl with no dowry whose family was in debt.
“Bad news?” asked Charlie. She must have noticed Sophie’s pained expression.
“Only the usual. Lord Buxton keeps hounding my stepfather to settle his debt.”
Charlie frowned. “You’ve never mentioned how much your stepfather actually does owe him.”
Sophie winced. “I believe it’s two thousand pounds.”
Charlie’s frown deepened. “I thought they were friends.”
“They are. However, I suppose even a friend couldn’t easily overlook that amount.”
“Yes . . .”
Charlie glanced at her aunt, who now seemed engrossed in the Times. “You know, I’m sure my father, and perhaps even Aunt Tabitha, could assist if needed,” she murmured.
“No. No you mustn’t say anything. Your family has already been more than generous, having me here and paying for my debut.”
Charlie nodded, the expression in her eyes earnest. “All right then. But please know we are always here to help.”
“Thank you.”
“And who knows”—Charlie’s eyes danced with mischief—“perhaps there is a certain viscount who might be able to lend a hand too.”
Again that unmistakable pinch in the vicinity of her chest. “Yes.”
Sophie bent her head to read Arabella’s letter but she could barely focus on the words. It seemed the mantle of guilt shrouding her was growing heavier by the day.
* * *
* * *
The Mayfair Bluestocking Society, Park Lane
May 11, 1818
Dust motes drifted in the sunlit air filtering through the wide casement windows into the upper-floor studio of Fifty-five Park Lane, the graciously appointed rooms rented by the Mayfair Bluestocking Society.
Seated beside Lady Chelmsford on a plush velvet settee, Sophie—still mindful of her healing wrist—watched with avid fascination as Charlie and Olivia danced back and forth across the polished beechwood floor with light-footed grace, their white calf-length skirts flaring with their movements, the blades of their silver foils flashing. All was quiet save for their soft pants of exertion, the slide of supple kid leather half boots on the floorboards, and the synchronous rasp of colliding blades.
“Olivia is doing very well, isn’t she?” Sophie whispered to Lady Chelmsford. She didn’t wish to spoil her friends’ concentration midround, nor provoke a censorious glare from the steely-eyed fencing master, Signor Santoro, who stood by one of the windows as straight as a soldier with his hands behind his back. Charlie had warned her that he could be quite the martinet.
“Yes, she certainly is,” the marchioness replied, sotto voce, behind her purple silk fan. “I’m so pleased her dragon of an aunt acquiesced to the outing. I know I stretched the truth a little when I told Mrs. de Vere you would all be helping me to put parcels of clothing and blankets together for the poor. But considering poor Olivia is a veritable prisoner in her own home, I think she deserves a jolly good dose of fun instead.”
Sophie nodded. “I do not know how she abides such an existence.”
“Neither do I, my dear Miss Brightwell. Neither do I.”
They watched Charlie expertly dodge an aggressive thrust by Olivia before she elegantly lunged forward in a neat countermove. The blossom-tipped end of Charlie’s foil touched her friend’s quilted satin waistcoat, and Olivia froze.
“Touché. The point goes to Lady Charlotte,” declared Signor Santoro with an emphatic nod of his head. “And thus she wins the match.”
Sophie and Lady Chelmsford applauded as the middle-aged Italian fencing master indicated that Charlie and Olivia should salute each other with their swords.
“And may I say, brava, Miss de Vere.” Signor Santoro’s mouth lifted into an unexpected smile beneath his curling waxed moustache as Olivia and Charlie shook hands. “Lady Charlotte is one of my best female students, and you held your own for a good deal of the match.”
Olivia pushed a dark lock away from her flushed cheek. “Th-thank you, signore. But I’m sure Charlie was just being kind.”
“Pfft. I assure you I wasn’t.” Charlie’s forehead creased into a frown as she tugged off one of her white kid gloves. “But tell me, who were you thinking of skewering in the second round? That was a rather impressive thrust. I didn’t even have time to think about parrying it.”
“Yes,” agreed Sophie, rising to her feet and crossing the floor to her friends. “You were lightning quick, Olivia. I’m glad I wasn’t facing you. I’m sure I would have lost a limb.”
Olivia’s blush deepened. “I was thinking about my horrid cousin F-Felix,” she murmured. “He’s down from Cambridge at the moment. He’s just so . . . temperamental. And trying. I wish he would leave.” She shuddered, then reached out to touch Charlie’s arm. “I apologize if I hurt you.”
Charlie hugged her. “Don’t be a peagoose. Of course you didn’t.”
Signor Santoro twirled the end of his moustache while giving Olivia a thoughtful look. “Miss de Vere, you must have received some instruction before, no? You are too skilled to be a complete novice.”
Olivia smiled shyly. “Yes, I have, signore. But it’s been quite a while since I trained, so I’m afraid I’m rather rusty.”
“Aha, I knew it,” exclaimed Charlie, tugging off her other glove. “Who taught you? Confess.”
“My f-father. He served in the military before I was born.” Olivia dropped her gaze and poked the toe of her boot with her foil before she added softly, “He believed all young women should learn to fence to improve their flexibility and posture. My mama used to fence too. I was twelve when I had my first lesson.”
“Your parents were very wise, my dear Miss de Vere,” said Lady Chelmsford gently. She rose from the settee and thanked Signor Santoro for his time. “Now, I suggest you two gels change into your day gowns and then we shall all repair to Gunter’s for tea and cakes. Ordinarily I’d
suggest we take tea at Chelmsford House, but I’m afraid Cook is in a dither about tonight’s dinner party.” She gave Sophie a little nudge. “I’m pleased to say your Lord Claremont is coming.”
Sophie wanted to say that he wasn’t really her Lord Claremont. But since he’d begun courting her in earnest, she supposed that, in a way, he really was.
As she trailed after Charlie and Olivia into the nearby changing rooms, her thoughts strayed to the evening ahead. Lady Chelmsford had invited Nate to her dinner party, but she doubted he would come.
Indeed, she had no idea what Nate really thought about Lord Claremont’s pursuit. Or if he even cared. He’d told her he was glad the viscount was courting her when she’d first mentioned it to him, and she had no reason to believe he’d changed his mind.
None at all. His ongoing indifference hurt more than it should.
Why was her silly heart so, so stubborn? If only she could skewer her feelings for Nate. Excise every thought of him from her mind.
Sophie gave herself a mental shake as she helped Olivia with the ties at the back of her day gown. She really needed to stop thinking about Nate. But perhaps tonight, Lord Claremont would kiss her and sweep her off her feet, and she would never think of Nate again.
A small, melancholy sigh escaped her. If only that were so.
* * *
* * *
Chelmsford House, Park Lane, Mayfair
“Miss Brightwell, I’ve been meaning to tell you how lovely you look this evening. The blue of your gown suits you very well.”
Warmth flooded Sophie’s cheeks as Lord Claremont’s gaze drifted over her with frank admiration. Beneath the mahogany card table, his muscular leg brushed against hers, and her blush deepened.
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured. Seated in a quiet corner of Lady Chelmsford’s drawing room, they were playing a postprandial game of piquet while their hostess and the other dinner party guests—twelve in total including Charlie and Lord Westhampton—lingered over their tea, sherry, and port by the fireside, or gathered around the pianoforte, where Lady Penrith played a delicate minuet.
But not Nate.
He’d sent his apologies to his aunt sometime during the afternoon. In Sophie’s opinion his excuse was quite feeble. He’d apparently only just recalled a prior engagement with the Duke of Exmoor—a night at the theater—but Aunt Tabitha had accepted it with good grace.
Sophie had tried very hard to ignore the dip of disappointment deep inside her when she learned that, yet again, she wouldn’t be seeing him. But as soon as she arrived at Chelmsford House, she decided she would have a marvelous time anyway. When Lord Claremont greeted her with enthusiasm, and smiled in that disarming way of his as he chatted to her during dinner, she did begin to relax and enjoy herself. Perhaps a little too much.
She dropped a card onto the table and frowned. How much champagne had she drunk tonight? Four glasses or three? Surely not five . . .
Squinting at her cards, Sophie tried to decide which ones to keep and which to discard. Indeed, she was finding it a challenge to focus on the game right at this moment, and she couldn’t quite recall whether she was the younger or elder hand.
Younger. You are the younger hand, Sophie. You need to pick up the cards left in the talon. Blast this befuddlement assailing her. How would she ever keep track of her points when she couldn’t even recall how many glasses of champagne she’d had? To make matters worse, she’d quite foolishly accepted a glass of sherry from Lord Claremont when they sat down to play. She really should have asked for tea.
“Sophie—you don’t mind if I use your first name, do you?—have you finished choosing?”
Sophie glanced at Lord Claremont over the top of her cards, and he smiled so warmly at her, it was clear he didn’t seem to mind that she was as soused as a tipsy cake. “Um . . . not quite.”
She hastily picked up several cards from the talon and sighed—all useless spades and no additional face cards; she probably should have called carte blanche. And then Lord Claremont’s knee pressed against hers again and she smiled to herself. Perhaps her considerate suitor wasn’t going to be quite the perfect gentleman tonight. If only he would take her out to the terrace and push her up against the wall and ravish her until she couldn’t think straight . . . And make her forget all about Nate.
Ugh. Nate.
Her frustration must have shown on her face because when she discarded her final card, the knave of hearts, Lord Claremont reached out and covered her bare hand with his. She smiled as she examined his long, well-shaped fingers. She liked it whenever he discreetly touched her elbow, her waist, or her hand. Indeed, she’d felt a glimmer of something when his fingers had brushed hers as he’d passed her a glass of sherry earlier.
Sliding her hand from Lord Claremont’s, she took another sip of the smooth wine. No doubt the alcohol was helping her to relax. To let her guard down. Strange how the warm, fuzzy feeling suffusing her body right now was akin to the sensation of falling in love.
Perhaps I am . . .
Oh, she really wanted to fall in love with Lord Claremont. She stared into his blue gray eyes, trying to focus on what he was saying. Something about going outside to take a turn about the terrace. The need to take the air?
“Yesssh. I mean, yes.” Sophie put down her cards with deliberate care. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Lord Claremont.”
The viscount stood and offered his arm. “You know, I would be most honored if you called me Matthew, dear Sophie,” he murmured by her ear as she rose.
“Of course.” Everything was a little out of kilter for a brief moment, and Sophie was grateful for Lord Claremont’s support as she slipped her hand into the crook of his strong arm. She tipped her head back and smiled. “Matthew.”
He patted her hand and led her on a sedate progress across the room until they reached the open French doors leading out to the terrace. When Sophie glanced back to the group about the fireside, Lady Chelmsford inclined her head and Charlie gave her a most unladylike wink. Lord Westhampton, who was deep in conversation with Lord Penrith, hadn’t noticed where Lord Claremont was taking her.
Oh, well. She had the consent of one of her chaperones. And really, how much mischief could Lord Claremont really get up to when the doors were wide open and everyone was only a few feet away?
Well, hopefully he’d be game enough to try something . . .
They wandered over to the sturdy gray stone balustrade to look out upon the walled garden. Chinese lanterns lit the meandering gravel paths, and the delicate scent of peonies and dew-damp grass hung in the cool night air. “Is this far enough, or would you care to make a circuit of the garden with me?” murmured Lord Claremont. He moved closer, and Sophie found herself pressed against the stone railing.
It seemed mischief making of the amorous kind was definitely on Lord Claremont’s mind.
“I . . .” Sophie swallowed, and her pulse fluttered oddly. Did she really want to do this? Take things further? Now that the moment was upon her, apprehension coursed through her veins. “I’m not sure.”
Lord Claremont’s warm breath coasted along her ear. “I understand completely, and I hope you’ll forgive my presumption. You are such a sweet thing and I wouldn’t want to press you for certain, shall we say, favors if you are not ready.”
A small sigh of relief escaped Sophie. “Thank you, Matthew,” she whispered. She looked up through her lashes at Lord Claremont, and he made an odd sound deep in his throat as though he was biting back a groan.
“I have to tell you something,” he said softly. “I need to go away for a couple of days, and I wanted to make sure . . .” He trailed off and swallowed. “Well, I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t think my interest had waned. Because if you did, I would be utterly miserable if you looked elsewhere.”
Sophie’s breath caught as guilt wrapped tight tendrils about her chest. “Wh
y . . . ? Why would you think that?”
Lord Claremont touched her cheek. “I’ve seen the way Lord Malverne looks at you, Sophie. Even though he assured me he doesn’t harbor a tendre for you, I believe his denial was false.”
Surely not. Sophie shook her head. She couldn’t believe that. Mustn’t believe that. Because if Nate cared for her . . . even loved her . . .
Irritation flared. No, Sophie. He doesn’t. If he did, he’d be here with you right now. Not at the theater with the Duke of Exmoor. Lord Claremont is simply feeling insecure because he probably senses your hesitation. And you must end this foolishness at once.
She boldly laid a hand on Lord Claremont’s satin-smooth lapel, steeling herself for what would come next. One thing was clear, Lord Claremont had to kiss her so she’d know how she truly felt, once and for all. “Matthew, I’m certain you are mistaken about Lord Malverne. Even though I’m staying at Hastings House, I barely see him. And because you are going away”—she slid her fingers up to his wide shoulder and met his gaze—“I don’t want to think about him. I’d rather think about you.”
Oh, my goodness. What had she done? Something hot and dark flared in Lord Claremont’s eyes. He raised a hand and tipped her chin up with gentle fingers. “Sophie, may I kiss you?” he murmured.
She nodded. She had to do this. “Yes.” And then she closed her eyes.
Lord Claremont’s kiss was as sweet and light as the peony-scented air, a brush of warm lips followed by a firmer press with the subtlest promise of more lingering behind it. Lord Claremont’s tongue touched the seam of her lips, but instead of yielding to his invitation to deepen the kiss, Sophie drew back.
Damn and damn again. Disappointment gripped her heart and she had to keep her eyes closed to hide a rush of stinging tears.
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 24